Memory Lane
by babybluecas
Summary: Dean just wants to get cozy and sweet, celebrating their 8th anniversary. But Cas keeps insisting it's not the 8th anniversary at all. He says that the numbers don't add up and he won't let it be. The attempts to get their timeline right set them off on a journey down the memory lane.
1. Chapter 1

"Happy Eighth Anniversary, Cas," Dean mutters into Cas's hair. "So what do you wanna watch?"

His hand scours the couch behind his butt to find the remote, but, of course, it's not there. He locates it on the armchair.

"What do you mean?" Cas asks as Dean rolls off the couch.

There's a squint on Cas's face when he slumps back next to him.

"Uh, I'm letting you choose, but only tonight. Appreciate it and be gentle with me."

Cas shakes his head. "No, what do you mean eighth anniversary?"

"Of the day we met," Dean supplies, surprised. "Well, the day you met me. Gripping my ass tight, raising from perdition and all that?"

"I know what we're celebrating." Cas nods. "I don't understand why you said eight years."

Now it's Dean who's wearing Cas's trademark squint. "Because that's how much time's passed. What else did you want me to say?"

Cas shuffles around to get a better look at Dean's face.

"Ten," he answers solemnly.

Dean's jaw slumps a little but he doesn't have a mind to close it. He needs all his brainpower to process the little word that came out of Cas's mouth. He pouts and reaches to his pocket to pull out his cell. He checks the date on the lockscreen. Yup, it's still 2016. He didn't get thrown forward in time, again, he didn't sleep through two years straight, he didn't even get super confused. It's 2016, so it's been eight years.

"Ten," Dean echoes, finally. "How the fuck would that be ten years?"

"It's been ten years since we met," Cas insists. "Why do you think it's only eight?"

"Because, Cas!" he snaps, not even trying to keep his voice down. Either there's something wrong going on here or Cas is extremely terrible at math, which also is not a good sign. "September 18th, 2008. That's when you pulled me out of hell!" He emphasises the word. "Kind of hard to forget."

Cas's mouth forms a perfect 'o' as he stares at Dean. He must be working hard to get his math right this time and, for a second, Dean considers lending him a calculator.

Then Cas's mouth starts moving like one of a fish's and no sound comes out. Looks like a total system freeze. Dean snaps his fingers in front of Cas's face before he starts looking for the reboot button.

"Cas?"

"Something's not right," he blurts out, at last.

His spooked expression raises the hairs on Dean's neck. On all of his body, in fact. If it's Cas of all people who says there's something not right, well, they've gotta brace themselves for real trouble.

Dean takes in a deep breath. Easy, Winchester, it's gonna be fine.

He puts his palm on Cas's shoulder. "Alright, Cas, slowly, tell me why you think there's something wrong."

Cas's eyes remain as wide, but his voice is even when he speaks. "The dates don't add up. I've been on earth, in this vessel, for ten years. I know this," he says firmly. "I know this," he repeats like his words are enough for a proof. "I might have lived for billions of years, but I am aware of each of those years."

Dean swipes his free palm over his mouth, the other still on Cas's shoulder, his thumb rubs soothing circles into his skin.

"Maybe— maybe it's 'cause you fell," Dean supplies, chest feeling a little lighter, like he's already solved the mystery. "You could get confused over the passage of time. It happens. More often that you'd think. Maybe not on a scale of two years, but still."

He keeps rambling and the words he's saying don't mean shit, because Cas's head is set on shaking, negating his words. So sure this is not the case. Hopefully, he's just being stubborn.

"Okay, we'll get to the bottom of it," Dean announces, patting Cas's shoulder. He rubs his palms together and shifts in his spot. "September 18th, 2008, you pull me out of hell and drop me in a grave," he starts the story. The day flashes vivid in his memory, surprisingly so. There's every second of digging out of that grave, of the walk to the gas station and that fucking noise that almost busted his brand new eardrums. Cas can be quite a screamer.

"Two days later you shoot me and stabbed me," Cas reminds him with a ghost of a smile on his lips. At least he doesn't look so terrified anymore.

"Hey, you used to be one intimidating guy, okay." Dean smiles too. Seeing those shadow wings span on the wall of the barn was scary as fuck. Sometimes it's easy to forget Cas is still that. "And then I made you fall."

"I'm still intimidating," Cas reminds him, lips pressed tight, eyes narrowed.

He straightens his back and a distant roll of thunder echoes somewhere outside the bunker. Dean grasps Cas's palm before he can start a full on tempest just to show off his wings again. Dean doesn't need to witness that spectacle again. And he doesn't need to see the broken and tattered tragedy left of his once splendid wings.

"Sure you are. But I like you more like this," he placates him and, luckily, it works. "You can go be scary to the bad guys."

"You're right," Cas says. "And it's not the time for this. We need to figure out our timeline."

"Our timeline," Dean echoes. Sound nice, rocky as the timeline itself might be. "You mean like your first smile?" he teases.

"It was hardly my first smile, Dean," Cas corrects with a serious face. "But that was an interesting year." He plays with the hem of Dean's sweatpants, tips of his fingers grazing his ankle. His eyes drop to them as he continues, "The part in which the host brought me back to unfall me was not," he adds.

His face falls. Dean's palm finds Cas's knee to provide the little bit of support he can. He swallows. Hoo, boy, he might as well get them a bottle of whiskey. This is gonna be a long afternoon.


	2. Chapter 2

This took a while, so sorry about that and thanks for patience

* * *

"It's a simple question, Sam," Dean growls into the phone. "How many years ago did you free Lucifer?"

Truth, Dean's wording could have been more fortunate. But this really isn't a good moment for pointing out that Cas freed Lucifer too, quite recently.

"Oh-nine," Sam supplies, at last, which is not helpful at all. A quick google for the biggest cataclysms of the last decade told them that much.

"How many—!" Dean starts shouting to the speaker, but Cas cuts him off, tearing the phone out of his hand.

"We need to know how many years ago that was, Sam," Cas explains, doing a way better job of keeping his cool than Dean. "When you freed Lucifer and I got brought back to life and you left and Dean and I went to talk to Raphael and—"

Dean slaps his palm on Cas's shoulder to stop him from talking and let Sam answer. He's neared a dangerous area, one that Dean would rather not share with Sam. Just because— well, that night before the hunt for Raphael's? That's his and Cas's only. Like all their easiest and most vulnerable moments have been. Their heavy confessions on park benches and in hospitals, smiles shared over beers.

But it was that night, wasn't it? That whole trip to Main? With Cas's mouth opening and closing without a word every time Dean epically missed the high note in a song, with the formidable angel's eyes wide with terror as he chugged down that beer, with the corners of his lips pulled up in a smile when Dean struggled for air outside of that brothel. It was then that, for the first time, Cas was no longer just an ally but a friend.

What a shame Dean needed years to have him become something else.

"That's seven years," comes Sam's voice from the speaker. Dean nods and flashes Cas an "I told you so" smile. "What is going o—?"

Sam never gets to finish his question as Cas ends the call and throws the phone on the couch with a frustrated grunt.

Dean's eyebrows ride up to his hairline. "You do realize he's gonna call ba—"

The buzzing of the phone cuts in and Dean shakes his head, reaching for the device. Cas's fingers bite into the back of the couch as his murmuring gets looped in a mantra of "This isn't right."

Dean attempts to block it out as he briefly explains the whole issue to Sam.

"So Cas was trying to convince me that my trip to the future got me confused," he says, slumping back between the cushions. "Like I'm not the one with the calendar on my side."

"What trip?" Sam asks and Dean rolls his eyes.

"Oh, you know," he grumbles, "the croatoan apocalypse, you on prom with Luci, Cas—" He bites his tongue, but it's already too late. He can feel Cas's stare drilling a burning hole in the back of his head. "Listen, I gotta finish," he says, before Sam can get out more than an "ah, that trip."

"Dean, wait!" Dean's thumb hesitates over the screen. "So, you don't think it might be some, some trickster? Or another higher power messing with us? Lucifer?" he adds, quieter.

"Or God Chuck took really crappy notes writing this whole tragicomedy." Dean gives out a humorless chuckle. "Come on, Sam."

"Well, I'll better come back and we'll figure it out together—"

"Nope, we're fine. You have fun on your date. I'm sure there isn't even anything to figure out."

He ends the call before Sam can add anything more, about how Dean is downplaying a potentially grave situation, but honestly, the sharper Cas's movements grow from frustration, the more his gut tells him the whole mystery will turn out to be the dumbest thing, like— well, okay, he might be running low on ideas at the moment, but—

"Dean?" Cas's weight slumps on the couch right next to him. "You never told me I was there. In fact, you specifically said you had no idea where I was in that future."

"Yeah?" Dean licks his lips, his eyes flick to Cas just for a second, before looking away. "Well, what was I supposed to tell you?"

"The truth," Cas replies without hesitation. He'd probably gave it a second thought if he knew what the truth is.

"What, that you stayed for some fucking reason? That you went all sex, drugs and, hopefully. rock'n'roll, after you'd become mortal?" Dean doesn't take his eyes off his palms, can't look at Cas, at his reaction to those words. But Cas only puts his palm on his hunched back and doesn't try to interrupt him. The thing is, Dean's already said more than he should have. "Besides, what does it even matter. That wasn't real. Fabricated world, wasn't it?"

At last, he turns to Cas. The angel seems to be picking his words carefully.

"That's… possible," he starts, nodding. "But it would be extremely difficult and power-consuming for any angel ranking lower than archangel. And even Gabriel seldom made things from scratch. Such a scale, attention to details, not to mention construction and operation of all the people you interacted with. I'm not sure Zachariah would manage it."

Dean lets out a heavy breath.

"So you're saying that was the actual future."

"Of that point in time, yes, I believe so," Cas admits. "But you and Sam destroyed that timeline when you averted the Apocalypse. Kind of like in Back to the Future 2, only for the better."

Dean can't help a wide smile.

"And you, Cas," he says, solemnly. "We wouldn't have done it without you. I mean really, everything, from saving our hides to all the things you've sacrificed, when you blasted yourself out, came to the showdown. I don't think we've ever properly thanked you for that. Well, isn't it shitty of me?"

"There's no need, Dean," Cas replies softly. "You know, the following eight years have been quite hectic."

And they're back to that, right. But before Cas returns to walking around the room, Dean throws his arm around his shoulders.

"Well, I'm glad there's one thing that remained the same."

Cas squints and cocks his head. "That Lucifer's free?"

"What?" Dean's eyes draw near, nose crinkles. "That doesn't make any sense, Cas." He chortles, shaking his head. He leans in and kisses Cas to stop him from guessing further. "I'm glad that you stayed anyway."


	3. Chapter 3

Stricken by some genius idea, Cas shot out of the room and disappeared into the corridor before Dean could get out a word. His return is announced with a series of quite disconcerting electronic beeps and screeches.

"Should it be doing that?" Dean asks, pointing to the laptop, open and starting up, hanging quite hazardously in Cas's palm.

"It should not," Cas answers bluntly, setting the device on the table and sitting next to Dean. "This is not of import right now."

"What did you do to the poor thing?" Dean doesn't let go.

Cas grunts and slams his fingers into the touchpad much harder than necessary.

"Dean, focus," he scolds him. "I'm about to prove I'm not wrong."

"Okay, okay," Dean placates him. He rests elbows on his knees and leans in. "Let's see what you got there."

Cas's fingertip steers the cursor to the Skype icon and Dean furrows his eyebrows. If he's gonna pull Claire into it, just to fire a "how long ago did I kidnap your daddy's body?" well, this surely won't end well for any party involved. Including this ongoing party here, that's become too much of a downer already to resemble a celebration of anything.

As Cas scrolls down to "c" on his short list of contacts, Dean opens his mouth to knock the idea out of his head but when he passes the girl's name and goes straight to "Crowley," hits dial, Dean's jaw drops halfway to the floor. That's, of course, some other Crowley Cas has on his Skype contact list, right?

"You've got Crowley's Skype?" Dean questions. "Do you two, like, Skype on daily basis or?"

"Apparently the reception in Hell has been faulty since Amara and Chuck left, however that's connected."

"But wifi's doing great? In Hell?" Dean snorts. "Call the news, there's a whole lot of people who'll be happy to hear that."

Cas says nothing to that, he just stares at the screen intensively. Dean really hopes Crowley doesn't answer, too busy doing whatever he does. But just as Dean's about to call it, the demon's face appears on the screen.

"Of course, the two of you," he greets them with epically annoyed expression. "Did you morons make a mess already? What has it been, three months?"

"Consider it a private call," Cas replies.

"Oh? I must say I'm flattered that it's my gentle yet athletic person you thought about in need of the thi—"

"We need to know how long you've known the Winchesters," Cas cuts him off, before Dean has to hear what exactly Crowley tried to insinuate. "The number of years, not the date," he clarifies.

"What?" Crowley's eyes squint, skip from what must be the webcam equivalent of Cas's face to Dean's and back to Cas, careful, like he's trying to determine whether it's some kind of trap or if they're shitting him.

"How long since you gave them the colt and then somewhat helped stop the apocalypse," Cas drawls out words, with a special emphasis on "somewhat."

Crowley shakes his head and starts murmuring something to himself and counting up on his fingers.

"Over eight years ago," he announces finally. "Can't forget the day these two started ruining my life. Why?"

"See, Dean?" Cas ignores Crowley's question. "Eight years ago we stopped the apocalypse. Not met."

Dean shrugs. "That only proves angels and demons use the same wacky calendar."

"What is that? You're having problems with mathematics?" Crowley chimes in, leaning towards the camera. "Or are you just… strolling down the memory lane? How adorable. Let me help you."

"No, thanks," Dean snaps, but Crowley goes on anyway.

"After you stuffed Luci back into the cage, you—" he points to Dean— "lost a year playing mister family guy and gardening or what have you and I spared Castiel the turmoil and all that moping around and swept him off for a sweet rendez—"

Cas shuts the laptop, raises third finger.

"You at Lisa's, I was fighting Raphael, that's three."

Dean presses fingers to his eyeballs.

"Only five more to go," he mutters, but he's no longer so sure of his calculation. Way too much crap happened since those painful, blurry months at Lisa's. Too much for one lifetime. Feels more like decades, centuries. Not five years.

Cas doesn't correct him this time, he just stares at the little lights of the laptop, probably buried deep in his thoughts. The one good news is that the damned thing stopped yelling and threatening them with an explosion.

Dean rolls his shoulders and readies himself for another painful recap, though he'd much rather just skip to the end already. Close inspection doesn't seem to be leading them anywhere, anyway. But before he can put the proposition forward, something in his head snaps into place.

"Hey, Cas, dunno if you noticed, but there's something that Crowley said—"

"Yes, I know," Cas answers, before he can even finish. His shoulders slump, his head turns away. When he continues, his voice is low and quiet. Dean has to lean in closer to hear him. "It could have all been different. I went to ask for your help. But I couldn't, I saw you there, peaceful, and I couldn't. What could you even do in a fight against Raphael?"

He turns to Dean with those last words, his eyes heavy. Dean's eyes wide, lips parted as he takes in his words. That's not at all what he expected to hear.

"Huh," he huffs, a little dumbfounded. "That's—"

A flash of understanding crosses Cas's face.

"You meant that Crowley used the word 'lost,' didn't you?" he asks with something akin to terror in his eyes. "He said you 'lost a year,' although that was hardly the most fitting word."

"Yes. Yes, that's exactly what I meant." Dean nods and waves his palm in an encouraging gesture. "But, by all means, please, continue."

It's all getting quite comic, really. Dean would laugh if it wasn't his messed up life there were talking about.

"I, um, uh—" Cas mumbles, looking around sheepishly. He slowly withdraws on the couch, putting more distance between them. At last his eyes dart back to Dean. "Didn't you mention you wanted some whiskey?" he asks, and with that pulls a decent, wingless equivalent of poofing off as he jumps off the couch and storms out of the room.


	4. Chapter 4

Dean takes a long sip of whiskey. Then he takes another until his glass is empty and his throat is warm. Still, this whole fucking mess they've created themselves doesn't feel any better.

He comes over to where Cas is standing, turned away, at safe distance. Dean doesn't touch him, he just grabs the bottle from the table. He takes Cas's glass too.

"I really wish we had just skipped that part," Cas says, voice full of that stupid, self-loathing regret. "Not that it would have made it disappear."

Dean pours the amber liquid into both glasses and corks the bottle. He puts it away, deep into the cupboard. He doesn't need a hangover tomorrow on top of all this. He doesn't need a clouded mind right now, either.

"You're damn right it wouldn't," he barks.

He walks back to the angel, both glasses in his palms. He reaches around Cas to hand him his. It takes Cas a moment to accept it like he did not deserve it. Friggin' idiot.

Dean pulls back the chair, a little too violently. "So why don't we sit the fuck down and move on?"

"Move on?" Cas echoes, turning to Dean, at last.

"Yeah." Dean rolls his eyes. "Dude, that was, uh, fi– six? Oh fuck this," he mumbles. This whole thing makes some things more complicated than they already were. He decides for the safest option, "It was a fuckton of time ago! Let bygones be bygones, Cas. It's not like the rest of us are saints."

Cas considers it for a moment. "Bygones, okay, I like that," he capitulates and, finally, takes the seat.

Dean shakes his head in disbelief as he plops down on the chair next to him. "I don't know what got your panties in a twist like that, man," he says, pulling the laptop closer. "I sure wouldn't be with you if I hadn't forgiven you a long time ago."

Cas gives out a sigh, or maybe it's an echo of a sob. But when Dean turns to him, there's nothing but a hint of a smirk on his face.

"I'm wearing boxers, Dean," Cas clarifies, not failing to make him chuckle.

Dean shoots him a playful, lopsided smile of his own. "Right now you might be…" he drifts off, leaving just enough of a blank for Cas's imagination to fill in.

Cas raises an eyebrow. "You say it like I'm the one here who–"

"You okay there, boys?" a voice interrupts him—at the last moment, thank God—and Mary marches into the kitchen with a slightly concerned look on her face.

Dean hangs his head down to hide the hot blush crept all the way up to his hairline. He didn't need his mom to almost hear he likes wearing panties to bed. _Sometimes_ , that is. She probably made the connection anyway. Oh crap, oh crap, oh crap.

"Yes," Cas answers, simply, and Dean elbows him to continue. He doesn't feel like facing his mom right now, let alone talk to her.

Cas, of course, takes the nudge for the opposite and presses his lips into a thin line.

"I thought I heard some raised voices, so I thought I'd make sure–"

"We were just talking, mom," Dean assures her, hoping she'll get a hint and leave them to it, but no dice.

She tips her head to the side. "And what was that about two years—" she lifts her fingers to mark the airquotes, whoever she learned _that_ from—"pulling a Houdini?"

Now Cas gets back his voice, "We're not sure how, yet, but it seems that we've lost two years."

"It's just a little error in calculations," Dean rushes to explain. "Nothing to worry about, probably."

Mary glances from Dean to Cas and back to Dean, with an expression suggesting she might break out the thermometer and blankets any second. But in the end, she just shrugs.

"Well, can't help you with that, I'm afraid. I've lost thirty-three years, apparently. Or gained?" she adds, knitting her eyebrows.

"That'd be thirty-five," Cas corrects.

Mary gives out a long, frustrated sigh, but doesn't comment. She reaches to the fridge and pulls out a slice of leftover pizza, starts eating it cold.

"Back to the case," Dean decides, turning to the screen. "I'm not getting any younger here. Let's see if anyone else noticed two thousand ten doubled."

He starts typing Cas leans in close, his hand wrapped casually around Dean's middle. Mary watches them from the other end of the kitchen.

Dean's fingers freeze over the keyboard mid-sentence.

"Hold up!" he gasps upon the realization. "Does that mean I'm freakin' thirty-nine, now?"

Whoah, no, that's definitely not cool, because that also means that in a few months–

"Almost forty, yes," Cas provides. Very fucking unhelpful.

"Oh, forty, sure!" Dean snaps. "Because four months and six days are nothing at all, who cares about that?!"

"Dean, I said 'almost'," Cas say, impatiently, which doesn't help much.

But before Dean can get too deep, wallowing in the horrifying discovery, Mary chimes in.

"Wait, my son will be forty, soon?" She sounds nearly as horrified as Dean, which is quite a relief. He doesn't get to relish it for long when her next words reach his ears. "Oh my, I could be a grandma now. At my age? This is… depressing."

Dean's eyes grow wide. "Oh God, mom!" he yelps, pleadingly.

He is not heard at all over Cas's voice, though, as the guy– well, he's trying to be helpful, probably, but fails miserably.

"I'm sorry, Mary, I don't believe now would be the best time for us to start a family."

Wow, seriously, Cas? "The what now–?"

"Yeah, I suppose not–" Mary agrees.

"Excuse me?" Dean tries louder, a little freaked out by now. "What is happening here right now?"

Mary's right behind them then, her hand lands reassuringly on Cas's shoulder. "Don't worry, Castiel, like I said, I'm way too young to be a grandma."

"Oh my God." Dean hides his face in his palms. Where are the hellhounds when he needs them to drag him underground? "Are you two done?"

"Dean, your mom was just–"

"Not a word!" Dean warns and resumes typing, suddenly getting a huge boost of motivation to get to the bottom of this idiotic mystery. "Two thousand ten, we stop the Apocalypse. A whole year later, Sam comes back. It's still two thousand ten. There's gotta be something here about it."

For a while, there's no sound other than the patter of the keys and clicking of the touchpad as Dean tries all the possible search phrases and opening every single result. He doesn't stop until long after his mom leaves with a brief "Keep me updated."

"I'm assuming I shouldn't have–"

"You're assuming right," Dean cuts in, his tone soft with the tiniest hint of amused. "It was so fucking uncomfortable, you've no idea."

"I didn't think–"

"Yeah," Dean mutters, pushing the laptop away, ostensively and rubbing his eyes. "There's zip, squat, nada. How could no one notice the whole extra year?"

Though, it's not like they were so quick to the discovery.

Cas starts rubbing circles into Dean's lower back. "We'll figure this out, somehow."

"Sure. Who's next in the line?" Dean asks, feeling he might regret his question. "Rowena? God, Himself? Charlie's ghost?"

He shakes his head, resigned and reaches to the laptop to shut it. His hand yanks back. The device's screen flashes white, then black. Then it turns into a freakin' stroboscope. The screeching comes back, too, louder and more frantic than before. The laptop's having a full-blown rave right there.

"The fuck?" Dean blurts, backing away in his chair, straight into Cas's arms, just in case the thing blows up in their faces.

And then it all stops, as suddenly as it started. Screeching dead, screen black.

"Okay, that was weird," Dean sums up.

Broken laptop is exactly what they needed at the moment. He's gonna need more of that whiskey, after all. He barely gets off the chair, though, Cas stops him.

"Uh, Dean?"

Dean glances back at Cas and follows his eyes to the black screen. Only the screen is no longer all black. On the left side of it, a blue cursor blinks a few times. Dean bites his lips, palm on Cas's shoulder. They wait, holding their breaths.

And then blue letters pop up on the screen, one by one.

"Shall we play a game?"


End file.
